The Back of Beyond
by LWallace
Summary: The childhood of Neil MacNeill was hard, tragic, full of life and death, and was what formed him into the compassionate and troubled man he was. This is my speculation of what it was like. Look for the shadows of things to come in his future.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Catherine Marshall's story and characters of Christy are owned by the Marshall-LeSourd Family, L.L.C. I am in no way seeking profit or credit for her story. I am expounding the story for my own amusement only.

**THE BACK OF BEYOND**

**A Tale of Appalachia; 1885**

"Look at ye, playin' in dirt at your age. Your pa oughter tan your hide, gettin' your clothes all tore up like that."

Neil knew she wasn't serious. His mother spoiled him, but with good cause. At twenty-two she had already lost three children, and six year old Neil had been the only one whose struggle to survive had been successful. She still marveled at her robust, healthy young son, with all his vigor for life.

She was dusting him off. "There noo". Neil loved to hear his mother's voice, with its very slight Scottish burr. She had been brought by her parents to America as a baby, and living all her life in a remote hollow with her highland parents had affected her speech, which her son often tried to mimic.

He grinned at her and placed a hand on her small round belly.

"Wi'ye lemme hear the tyke?"

"I doobt ye can hear 'im, but ye cin feel . . . there!"

The boy's eyes brightened when he felt the tiny thump of a kick beneath his hand.

"How does the baby breathe in there?"

"Well son, I don't rightly know.—Now , let's git ye some supper. Is that corn all hoed up?"  
"Aye ma. I hoed it and weeded it like pa showed me."

"Good lad."

Catherine MacNeill moved laboriously around the kitchen, cooking the trout that her husband had caught and her son had helped clean, peeling potatoes they had grown on the steep mountainside.

Little Neil was watching his mother closely; he saw how she gasped for breath and would stretch her back. Suddenly she groaned in pain.

"Ma, be ye a-hurtin'?"

"Ain't a-hurtin'. I'm just a bit tired is all, wee one."

Neil relaxed, lapsing into his thoughts even as he still observed her keenly.

"Ma, how do eyes be a-seein' things? And why are they colored?"

"I don't know how come," she replied slowly, pushing back her dark red hair with her wrist. "But I reckon we's all got different colored eyes 'cause of what's in our souls."

"What d'ye mean?"

"Wa-a-al—I reckon when a gal-woman comes along that ye take a fancy for, ye'll know what I mean," she chuckled.

"How come ye reckon that ye have blue eyes, ma?"

She laughed and shook her head. "For the same reason you have blue eyes."

Neil didn't understand that. "Well I like blue eyes, ma, and dark as water, like yers."

"'Dark as water'!" his mother laughed.

"Didn't Moses have blue eyes, ma?"

Immediately he saw his mother grow solemn at the mention of her second child, a year older than Neil, who had died three years ago. Neil didn't know why he had died, just that Moses had felt very hot, lying in bed all day, and nobody would answer his questions about what was happening to his older brother.

She nodded, staring eerily past Neil's shoulder, out the window of their cabin. "Dark as water," she whispered.

Neil remembered how angry he was when his brother died, his brother whom he practically worshipped. How he had pulled and kicked up the tiny oak tree they had found in the woods together, no bigger than a twig.

Then Neil remembered how two years ago the middle-aged Granny Barclay had come to the cabin one day while he was down at the river getting a bucket of water.

He saw her from there, hurrying up the steps. He rushed up after her, sloshing water all over his leg. Wherever Granny Barclay visited, babies always followed. How he wanted a little brother or sister!

He had stumbled up the steps, across the porch, pushed open the heavy door . . . There was a funny smell inside, like the way the razorback hog smelled during slaughtering time.

He remembered the feel of his father's big, calloused hand grabbing the straps of his overalls as he had raced towards his parents' bedroom.

"Don't ye go in thar, boy." The gruff voice stopped him in his tracks, and as he looked up at his tall, lean, tousled-looking father, with his blond-red beard growing out, his pa turned his face to the shadows.

Much later, Granny Barclay came down cupping something delicately in her hands.

'She looks right sad,' Neil thought. 'Whatever's in her hands looks red. Is that blood?'

"Is there a new baby?" he asked aloud, crowding Granny Barclay, who, startled, reached to keep what was in her hands out of his sight, walking straight out the door. Neil followed her, about to ask again when she whirled on the porch and said in a stony voice, "Neil MacNeill—stay right where you are!"

She left him, confused and hurt, standing in the doorway. He never knew what she did with the little red thing in her hand. Or, till sometime later, what had happened to the new baby.

The smell of fried trout and the feel of a rough wooden ladle being shoved into his hand startled Neil back to where he was.

"Eat, son." He had made his mother sad. He could tell by her downcast eyes and how she began moving faster, banging things around without knowing it.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the porch and a shadow reached through the open doorway.

"Pa's home!" Neil shouted, and running to him stopped before throwing his arms around his middle, half afraid of the man from whom he was seeking some sort of assurance.

There _was_ a sort of assurance showing through, but to Neil's childlike mind, there was none in the rough bear-like exterior of his father.

Charles MacNeill at twenty-seven acted twice his age, feeling the responsibilities of the Cove on his shoulders. Of the Clan MacNeill, he was one of the last, and a "chieftain by death" as the saying was. His older brothers had been killed in the War Between the States. Now he felt he was the highlanders protector, their standard, because of the MacNeill of Barra having led them to that mountain in the year 1750. He never spoke of this burden to others outside the sparse MacNeill clan, but imparted the idea through word and deed to his only son. His single wish for little Neil would be for him to help their people.

Neil stared up into the piercing hazel gaze of his father, wondering what that look meant.

His father sighed, rumpled the shock of sandy-reddish curls on Neil's head, and went to eat his supper.

After all the cleaning had been done, Neil watched his mother ease slowly into the low, spindle back chair that his grandfather always bragged about coming from Scotland. His father sat looking hard into the crackling fire, a pipe in his mouth, a pipe very familiar to Neil, with its silver inscripted band on the stem, smoke wafting out.

He breathed in deeply as he pulled up the three-legged stool between the knees of his parents. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece soothed Neil, listening to its rhythmic beating. It stayed the same—it was constant.

His mother sat idly; she had no need to make clothes for the coming "bairn", as she had made so many before for the children who were not to be.

"Neil", she spoke gently. "Fetch your granny's Bible froom the chest in my room."

He did so, always glad to do something, climbing the makeshift stairs to his parents' bedroom, past the big four-poster bed to the cherry chest of drawers—also from Scotland—where the heavy black Bible sat.

He was careful as he handed it to his mother, and resituated himself on the hard stool.

Her work-worn hand smoothed the tattered cover, and then sifted through the creased pages.

Neil saw his father shift restlessly in his chair. Did pa not like ma to read the Bible? Well if he didn't, then Neil wouldn't like it either. But ma liked to read it to him . . . he would at least listen.

"I'm gon' tell ye the tale of Gideon. Says right here that Gideon was a mighty man of valor, like you will be Neil, when ye be all grown up."

Neil glanced at his father, who seemed to be paying heed. His mother went on.

"But Gideon was a doubter. He said to the Lord, 'Where're all yer miracles our granddaddy's tol' us 'bout? An' if'n you is really with us, then how come all o' these bad things be a-happenin'? No sir, Lord A'mighty, I dast say that I think ye've forsaken us.'"

"Ye ain't a-joshin' me? He honest done said that to the Lord A'mighty?"

"I'm a-tellin' ye the sure-fired truth. But the good Lord didn't pay 'im no heed. He jest up and said, 'Haven't I done sent ye? You are gonna save yer people.' But I reckon Gideon was in a right argufyin' mood, an' he said, 'How can I save my people? My family is poor and I'm the least'un.' An' do ye know what the Lord said to that, Neil?"

"What'd 'e say?" he asked eagerly, caught up in the drama of the story.

His mother leaned her face in close and whispered, _"I am with thee."_

I am with thee? That was it? Neil thought.

His mother laughed at his confused face.

"That's what He said, an' He meant it, too. But I reckon Gideon was aboot as stubborn as you, Neil. An' he up and asked God to prove it. And God did. He didn't git a mite angry with Gideon--."

"How did God prove it?" Neil demanded.

"To Gideon, He used what was asked; a peck of fleece. But the good Lord proves it many a different way. Why, Neil, God may use a person you love to show you He's with ye. He'll use anything 'e wants to to bring ye to Him."

Solemn truth rang in those words, even to young Neil.

"A person I love?"

"Sometimes that's the way He does, son. When everything seems at the worst, someone you love'll show you the way."

His father stood and walked away. "Best get on with your next readin' lesson boy."

"But what happens next?" Neil asked urgently. He had to know.

The MacNeill turned and answered slowly, looking deep into his son's eyes. "He saved his people from death."

His son met his gaze just as earnestly. "Is that what I should do, pa?"

"That's what you should do."

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TO BE CONTINUED

_A/N Yes, a little different, I know. After all, it's a Christy fanfic that doesn't have Christy in it. (Figure that one out!) But I'm counting on lots of feedback as I'm sure I'll miss several things pertaining to the characters and to Appalachian life in general. So y'all keep me on my toes and make sure you tell me if I didn't get anything right or you think it should be different. Please review and tell me what you think, as I have quite a bit more of this story that hopefully explains the motives and futures of a few of the characters, right up till Neil leaves for college. Don't worry; I don't cover every single year. ;) _


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Catherine Marshall's story and characters of Christy are owned by the Marshall-LeSourd Family, L.L.C. I am in no way seeking profit or credit for her story. I am expanding the story of the characters of Christy for my own amusement only.

THE BACK OF BEYOND

A Tale of Appalachia; 1885

PART II

Since Neil didn't have any brothers or sisters, he did most of the chores around the cabin even at a young age, including the "gal-woman's work". He helped his mother make candles, gather "yarbs", tend the crops, feed their few animals, gather flax, help with the dew process and spinning, chop wood, make repairs, hunt, and anything else that needed done.

Very seldom did anyone but the elder MacNeill have contact with the others in the Cove, a fact which Neil lamented. He craved the company of more people and had a special fondness for the elders of Cutter Gap. The occasions of hunts, weddings, funerals, workings, and harvest-time gatherings were so looked forward to, and any other excuse for a gathering would be used.

The next morning Neil rose with the sun, feeling a sharp pain in his jaw as he pulled on his clothes. He exited the room he shared with his grandfather, who was away hunting, that was off the kitchen. His door opened next to the fireplace, where his mother was kneeling next to a pot of porridge, made with oats grown on their mountain or bartered from neighbors.

The morning sun shone on her dark red hair and the fire's feeble glow glistened off her damp face.

"Warsh up," his ma said. Why she was so picky about that Neil didn't know. He didn't reckon that any of the other ma's took to having their young'uns wash up all the time.

He headed for the river below the cabin. The air was cool even for a spring morning in the Smokies. The dew was heavy, and Neil squished through the mud and wet brambles barefoot, onto the hard, loose pebbles that made up the bank. The air was grey with the morning, fog rose from the flowing river, the birds sang shrill and loud beneath the sound of rushing water, and there was the smell of fish and budding trees. Some flies rose above the water.

Neil loved this river. In a place where personal belongings were scarce the river was his own. It gave them water to drink and to bathe in, they used its water to cook, supplied them with fish, and watered their crops during draught.

He knelt by the water, noticing the clarity, which meant good luck to the highlanders. The rocks seared into his knees as he dipped his fingers slowly into the cold water before scooping up handfuls to splash on his grimy face.

His jaw was hurting dreadfully.

At breakfast he couldn't eat much for the pain in his mouth, but, like a man, didn't say anything.

That afternoon as Neil was yowling in pain, his pa arrived with Bogg McHone in tow. The thirty-five year old man was already going grey, and normally Neil would have been delighted he was there. But this time, he knew he had come for one reason.

"Open wide, boy," Uncle Bogg ordered.

Neil wouldn't do it, and considered fighting like a wildcat, but Bogg held him down.

"Whaur's it hurt?"

After locating the tooth that was causing the trouble, Bogg grabbed the fireplace tongs and yanked hard.

"There y'are. Nothin' to't," he said, proudly displaying the little tooth.

Neil moaned.

"I thank ye, Bogg. I wasn't gon' git myself all tore up tryin' to help the rascal," said the MacNeill.

"No trouble, no trouble," Bogg chuckled. Neil knew his father could've yanked the tooth out just as well, and wondered what he would be paying Bogg for his "service".

"I bin yankin' teeth fer nigh on twinty years. Iver since I pulled all the teeth outa my pappy's bist hound dawg."

Neil's eyes grew wide. He fell for almost all of Bogg's tales.

"Now you be sure an' put that thar cast tooth in a mouse's nest fer good luck, boy. You'uns comin' to the workin' fer Dale's new cabin?"

Neil's pain disappeared entirely as he looked at his father, eyes bright.

"I reckon we'll be thar."

***********************************************************************************

The next week, Neil and his pa set out for Pigeonroost Holler, where Dale Teague was building a cabin for himself and his bride-to-be Lenore Robertson.

The trek across Lonesome Pine Ridge would have exhausted any child but one who had been born and bred there, and to one as excited as Neil, it was exhilarating.

His father took long strides in front of him, his rifle and mattock over his shoulder, knee-length boots, hat pulled low with his hair sticking out.

Barefoot Neil scrambled over wind-thrown trees, through dead leaves from years past, keeping a close eye out for animals. Rustling came from above his head.

"Pa, a squirrel." Then worry crept into his voice unawares. "Ye ain't gon' shoot it, are ye, pa?"

His father turned and measured Neil somberly. "We kill'em fer food, young'un. Anyone who does it fer sport I ain't a-holdin' with. You remember that, boy. Food we need. It's what got's to be done. Ye're soft-hearted, like your ma. Killin' and dyin' is part of life. Somethin' you'd best get used to."

"Yes-sir." Neil looked skyward. The squirrel had skittered away. Partly he was glad. He liked shooting a target as much as the next boy, and skinning game, but an animal in pain he couldn't stand.

"We should go to the workin' with meat, to add to the vittles ye're carryin' from yer ma," his father said. "I been teachin' ye how to shoot 'em right, boy. In the head. Don't pain 'em a'tall--kills 'em right off. Ye jest watch me."

They walked on, through unchanging underbrush and the tangled flora of a late mountain spring. Neil tried to imitate his father's quiet tread when he was distracted by another squirrel's chattering close by. He looked at his father, still walking up ahead. Surely he had heard it.

"Pa, above ye. Right big'un," Neil whispered.

His father turned silently with ease, raising the gun to his shoulder. A loud crack! and the animal fell to the ground.

Neil picked it up carefully by its fuzzy tail. Good, it was dead. He beamed at his pa in admiration.

"Good ear, boy. See? Kills it right off, like I told ye. Let's see if we cain't git a few more."

Their breath came shorter on the next stretch of the ridge, but coming down the mountain, and after shooting a second squirrel, the father and son grew more talkative.

"You cin help clear the brush at the site, boy, but don't get in the way of the men. An' don't be pesterin' the grannies with all yer questions 'bout yarbs now, y'hear?"

"Yassir."

Neil wouldn't pester the grannies with his questions. Why, they _liked_ talking to him about all they knew. He smiled to himself, thinking of all they had taught him already; cherry bark for coughs, yarrow for fever, garlic for colds . . .

"Yer grandsire's headin' back home, I heerd. Ye won't have to sleep by yourself no more."

"I ain't skeered."

His father smiled satisfactorily and Neil puffed up his chest a little more.

"You think he got the White Buck?"

His father spit. "Doubt it. Leastwise we woulder heerd it all over the Cove."

Neil was glad his grandfather would be back—the hearty man was gone most of the time hunting to trade furs in El Pano and Lyleton.

Half a mile away from the chosen glen, they could hear axes chopping away at thick logs, masculine and feminine voices mingling together in highland song, the cries of children at play. Neil itched to race and join them but he kept a manly pace with his father. The intoxicating scents of hewn pine, fish in boiling water, grimy bodies, and trodden soil reached the newcomers in full force.

They reached the edge of trees where light could actually stream through. Neil was impressed by the sight; about thirty men in checked or plaid shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, sweat pouring down their faces, hats either on askew or cast aside.

Women in homespun, unbleached linen coming to their ankles, were carrying water back and forth, tending to dishes of steaming fried tater and bowls of sauerkraut on the makeshift tables, laughing and singing snatches of airs.

Able bodied grannies who relished trekking across mountainsides were delivering deserved punishments to over excited children snitching food, gossiping among themselves at the same time, never missing a beat.

Neil, always a favorite among the children of the Cove, was summoned immediately to join their circle. His father had already cast off his hat and was being greeted heartily by the men folk.

A girl was calling his name. He turned to see her grinning, her thin face dirty.

"Come awn and play," the eight year old said.

"I'll come when I'm good and ready, Opal. I gotta get my work done too."

A slender ten year old girl, tall for her age, skipped up to them laughing.

"Ye dast not make Neil MacNeill do anything he don't want to, Opal."

"Ain't that the truth, Fairlight?" said a new voice. Neil turned, and beside him stood twelve year old Jeb Spencer.

"We ain't supposed to get in the men-folk's way right now," Jeb went on. "They's a-fellin' an' hewin'. But later on, I'm gonna do some notchin'.

Neil nodded enthusiastically. "Ye oughtta watch my pa. He be the best scriber in this here Cove."

A chubby little girl was reaching for him. He stroked the fine hair on her head. "Howdy, Lety."

"Hey Web, reckon I cin skin-the-cat afore you!" Fairlight hollered to a young boy and took off running.

Neil followed Jeb to a plank table, where a scraggly lad his age crawled out from underneath.

"Hawdy, Neil."

"Hawdy, Tom. What ye be under thar fer?"

"Hide-an'-seek." He was breathing hard, but then sidled past them, hollering, "Ye niver come fount me, Opal! How ye reckon--can I be found--if'n ye don't . . ."

"Wait till we get commecin' to dance," Jeb was saying. "Grandsir Spencer showed me a new tune on his five-strang."

Tom McHone came strolling back. "My paw done pulled a tooth out'n yer mouth?" he asked wryly.

"That he did. And it didn't hurt a bit."

"Must've practiced by pullin' out all 'is own teeth," Jeb said, chuckling as he ran off.

Neil grinned at Tom who grinned back sheepishly. "Ye git ye some squirrels?" he said, indicating the two Neil still held in his hand.

"Pa did. Wanna help clean 'em?"

They sat down at a table as Neil pulled out his knife and began to skin and clean them, stopping every few moments to examine a part of the entrails. Some of the children began to gather around, wondering what Neil was up to this time.

"I declare," shrilled eleven year old Rebecca. "He is the oddest boy I ever seed in my life. Why don'che jest _cut up_ the squirrel, Neil MacNeill? 'Stead of playin' with its mortally dead body. Hit be downright disrespectful—Lord a-mercy! Ye be gittin' blood ever'where!"

"Oh, shet yer trap, Becky," Fairlight chided. "Neil knows what he's about."

Neil just sat there smiling, his hands bloody. "Wul ain't that fine? Lookee at hit's brain, fellers! It's all blue!"

The girls shrieked and retreated as he held it close to them.

"Now listen to the sound hit makes when I pull the tail out--"

"Neil?" A young woman approached, her blonde hair piled high atop her head, making her look older than her seventeen years, and crystal clear blue eyes above her angular features taking in everything around her.

"Mornin', Hattie."

"You better get that squirrel clean. You can come cook it in my pot over yonder. The men folk'll be wantin' vittles soon."

"Aye, Aunt Hattie. You gwine to sing for us?"

"Only if _you_ sing, too!" she laughed.

For the first time Neil took in the workers and their families. The Robertson's were here, the Beck's, Timmins', Holneff's, McDade's . . . Neil saw Mr. Holt and his son Ozias swinging axes, Mr. Holcombe and John, Mr. McHabe and Timothy, Matthew Coburn and Kyle, and Freeman and Dale Teague. The Allen boys, Bob and Ault, were working on the foundation of the cabin with Uncle Bogg.

Neil put the squirrel meat in Hattie's pot and then presented the dried apple cake his mother had made to sixty-five year old Polly Teague. Her mobcap quivered and her face crinkled with pleasure.

"Well tarnation, boy! Ye done growed like a summer foal. How's yer mammy?"

As Neil gave an account of his mother's well-being—with far more thoroughness than any ordinary child, Aunt Polly thought—the other women gathered around, always eager for news.

"Ye say her back been a-painin' her?" asked Granny Barclay.

"Aye."

"Wal jest git some pokeberry and brew the root in some tea. That oughtta help."

"Yessum."

"An' see to it she don't lift nothin' too heavy," put in Buener Holcombe, always ready to give advice, whether she knew anything about the subject or not.

Granny McHone always spoke with authority, and her Aberdeenshire accent fascinated Neil. "Tell her ta tak an oil bath an' traipse roond a fire ever'day till the bairn coomes. And she should eat cheese ef she can."

Neil soaked up all the information like a dry sponge, marveling that these women knew so much. They had an especial fondness for him, for who would have been a more eager listener?

Neil was glad to be put to work with the men however. He couldn't stand to do nothing, and was soon keeping right up with them, at one point trying to drag a log towards the crude foundation of mud and rock. It wouldn't budge, no matter how much he pulled. Suddenly it moved slightly, and he was on his way, nothing could stop him now. He set the log down in the proper place, dusting his hands off proudly, when he saw his father setting down the other end of the log with a wink to the men. Neil felt his face get hot, but quickly said, "Glad I could holp ye out there, pa." The men guffawed, and he saw his father shine him the hint of an approving smile.

"That's enough from you, wee one. Now you and the other boys go fitch rocks fer the chimney."

"The chimney?"

Uncle Bogg jumped in. "Lee-nore was bent on havin' herself a chimley. Don't see the sense in it. Ya know what I call it? An ex-trav'gint waste." Accompanied by a stream of tobacco juice he seemed right proud of the word he used.

Neil rooted through the crackling leaves of last winter as he went towards the creek, the pungent smell of tree and earth reinvigorating him. He found some good sized rocks and hauled them back to the site.

Grandsir Spencer began singing, in a voice starting to crack and strain from age, the syncopated strains of,

"Killy Krankie is my song.

Sing and dance it all day long,

From my elbow to my wrist,

Now we do the double twist."

Everyone knew that was that call to commence eating, and axes, mattocks, and saws were set aside.

While the women served the men at first table they sang and hummed as well, laughing when Neil boisterously joined in.

"Broke my arm, broke my arm,

A-swingin' purty Nancy.

Broke my leg, I broke my leg,

A-dancin' Killy Krankie!"

"He's liable to, the way he dances," laughed Hattie.

"Ye gwine to break yer arm a-swingin' a purty gal?" Mrs. Allen teased.

"Of coorse noot," crooned Granny McHone. "Neil MacNeill is a natural boorn dancer. Ye bin practicin' the jeg I shooed ye?"

"Aye, granny." He ran off to find his father before they could say anything else. He couldn't help it he loved to dance, and he liked to sing almost as well. Not as well as Jeb Spencer, he thought, who trekked to every singing between Cataleechie and Lufty Branch.

Neil found his father sitting at table with Grandsir Spencer. Aunt Polly, being the hostess, would sit at the head of both tables and she kindly handed Neil a chunk of sweet tater pie, for the children had to wait before helping themselves. Neil sat on the ground behind his father, wanting to hear the talk.

"I bin thinkin' hard about it, Grandsir. There was nine dang letters delivered last year, and one already this year. We should git us a mailman from El Pano. Be a full time job, what with all the letters comin'. . ."

A mailman? That would be something—just like a city, Neil had heard. Munching the tater pie, Neil heard snatches of Grandsir Spencer speaking about "too much dad-blasted change", and "mountain folks not needin' nobody else".

Then he was saying, "He come right in and started speakin' in a loud voice. I says to 'im, 'Mister, you sure got a lot a-gumption for sech a small man.' Didn't phase him none. Said he wast a doctor--"

Neil pricked up his ears. A doctor? In these mountains? The nearest doctor was over fifty miles away.

"—A doctor what give up his med-i-cal practice to do mission wark in these here mountains. Ye 'magine that? _Mission_ wark!" he guffawed.

Neil couldn't see his father's face, but his voice was quiet. "What'd he give his name as?"

"Ferrand," was the grim answer. "We best keep an eye on the likes a-him."

Neil wondered why.

*************************************************************************************

The talk in the children's circle was lively. They compared arrowheads, discussed the crops, the older boys laughed at ribald jokes, they lamented slightly over their chores, all much in the manner of their elders.

Neil participated in everything, it seemed like, even while painstakingly making dolls for the younger girls, Mary, Lety, and Elizabeth.

Seven year old Web Allen suggested a game. Game-songs were always a favorite, and everyone joined hands in a circle. The ever gawky Tom McHone, bright-eyed Fairlight, chubby Lety, spindly Elizabeth, smiling Opal, burly Jed Holneff, solemn John Holcombe, even the children much older would join in.

"Charlie, Ye come on!" Fairlight called to her little brother.

"Don' wanna," his mouth was turned down in a pout, as was usual, for not having something his own way.

"Charlie, ye'll stand by me," Neil extended his already hardened hand to the four year old, who after a moment's hesitation clasped it with his pudgy red paw. Fairlight smiled at Neil.

"Charlie, we'll even let ye be in the center," she said kindly. He accepted, grinning as he stood there, everyone dancing around him.

The nursery tune they sang was rather wild, but closely resembled "Buffalo Gals".

"Charlie is his first name,

First name, first name.

Charlie is his first name,

Among the white daisies."

Charlie then chose a 'sweetheart' to be in the middle for the next verse, and went back to his place in the circle.

"Mary is his true love's name,

True love's name, true love's name.

Mary is his true love's name,

Among the white daisies."

Mary then chose Tom, who chose Opal, who became the butt of the classic verse. In this, the rather frightening artistry of the mountain children shone through, for they wept and wailed as each one saw fit.

"Now poor Opal is dead and gone,

Dead and gone, dead and gone.

Now poor Opal is dead and gone,

Among the white daisies."

This slightly unnerved "poor Opal" and she promptly chose Neil for the next. The children laughed with glee—they considered this a highly amusing verse and would wail in sorrow with the words.

"Left Neil a widower now,

Widower now, widower now.

Left Neil a widower now,

Among the white daisies."

The grannies were watchong as they cleaned up. "I don't like it," mused Granny Barclay. "Doin's like that cain't mean no fortune—none good leastways."

"Aye," went on Granny McHone. "Whin ye wesh foor things they might coome true."

Fairlight overheard them amidst all the clapping and singing. Her smile dimmed.

*************************************************************************************

Later in the afternoon the small cabin was well under way. It amazed Neil how much the men could do in just one day when they set their minds to it. A few of them were going to spend the night at Freeman and Polly's lovely cabin just over the knoll, to do finishing touches the next day. The MacNeills would have to hurry home, however, to Neil's mother.

The workers were tiring, with good cause, for they had spent the past few hours notching logs with careful precision, and linking them together like a puzzle. But however exhausted they were, they always saved their second wind for the dancing spell.

The makeshift tables, which occupied the only reasonably flat place of the entire clearing, were taken apart and put away, and Grandsir Spencer pulled out his fiddle as a cheer went up from the crowd.

Neil noticed Jeb almost hanging off his grandfather, almost like a bee round a sprig of azalea, waiting for the moment he could prove his stuff. Neil smiled wryly at his comparison of Jeb. Grandsir Spencer would like that, he thought, what with him trying to teach Jeb all he could about the bee and honey trade.

Then suddenly, away they went, one song after another, hardly pausing for breath, couples relishing in family ties, shouting, carrying on. Neil's father whirled around with his little sister and Neil spied Timothy McHabe watching Hattie closely. They had been courting for months now, everyone expected a wedding any day.

Grinning, Neil's father spun Hattie into Timothy's arms, and Neil laughed for pure joy, breaking into a jig in the center. He grabbed Fairlight with both hands, and they fumbled enthusiastically through the dance together.

The fiddle solo whined and whistled, eighth notes and grace notes creating major intervals, fourths and thirds, all in syncopated swaying. Neil could feel the rhythm beating in his temples, singing in his blood. Young as he was, he loved to dance!

Jeb sang under his breath, and his voice grew louder and louder, improvising separately from the music, yet in perfect harmony. A few others, not able to follow his wild "caterwauling", sang the melody. An alto and bass part softly crept in as the tune went around and around . . .

"Way low down in the cedar swamp,

Waters deep and muddy,

There I met a pretty little miss,

There I kissed my honey."

In the split second of a pause, Uncle Bogg slapped his knee and cried out, _"Jubilee!"_ Another skip and a holler as Grandsir Spencer took up the cry. The tune changed.

The women joined hands in a long line and the men did the same facing them in reel formation. The formality of choosing a partner was ignored with a "take what you get" philosophy, leaving a much grander sense of old-time fun.

The men joined hands and circled around the women back to their original places, while the women did a sort of relay with a jug of blockade liquor, seeing if each could take a swig before the men made it all the way around. The head couple then reeled down the set, and the women would go around, passing the jug to the men. The dance usually went till the jug ran dry and the only one left sober was the fiddler. The children were made to sit out of this dance, clapping and singing along,

"Swing and turn, Jubilee,

Live and learn, Jubilee."

Neil watched in fascination as the pewter jug was tilted again and again, from one red mouth to the next, the lowering sun glinting off it mesmerizingly.

After much spinning and stumbling it finally ended. Everyone was laughing, but on the whole they were none the worse for wear. A person who could not "hold their likker" in those mountains was viewed as being weak. And those to whom this applied were careful to enjoy in moderation, therefore not displaying their weakness.

Worn out, they left off dancing to sing; the tragic ballads they all loved so well, ha'nt tales, Gaelic airs, task tunes, ancient carols, a few hymns. Aunt Polly, Neil observed, loved the hymns best and sang them lustily.

Jeb Spencer then played some simple songs on the five-string. Neil requested "Shady Grove", looking at his father for approval. It was his special "courtin' song", which he would often sing to his wife—and Neil loved it.

In that precious moment, he didn't reckon there was anything more beautiful in the entire world than the people he loved singing the songs they loved.

The sun was getting lower, the sky turning an orange blue color, and a keen breeze began to blow, rustling the new green leaves budding out on the trees. Yet no one made a move to depart. Like himself, Neil guessed they didn't want this moment to end. There was a warmth betwixt them all, built from the same passion, hardship, struggle, honor, hatred, and love that beat boldly in every mountain heart.

Some of the men were kindling a fire in the center of their circle. Neil moved against his father, breathing in the scent of the linen shirt he wore, the feel of it on his own cheek, the smells of wood smoke and sweat. It was getting cool, but his father felt so strong and warm. He knew his father wanted this to last as long as possible. He could rarely be with so many other men for such periods of time, for in those mountains, any highlander hardly ever dared to venture outside of his own small radius surrounding his home, into the merging of mountain, forest and shadow, the very edges of the Back of Beyond that seemed to hold them in and yet release them at the same time.

Neil stared up at the looming mountain directly ahead of them, wondering, always wondering what lay beyond, that the men always spoke of it with such distrust. Perhaps they were afraid? One day, Neil intended to find out for himself.

His attention was drawn back when Uncle Bogg turned to Jeb.

"Ye know, onct I seen me a fiddler what never had to move his bow."

"How come?"

"Cuz his bow was more'n a hundred feet long, jest disappeared from sight an' went on till kingdom come."

Jeb smiled in disbelief.

"Hit's ever' word true. Seen it myself over English Mountain way. He was one of the best fiddlers I ever seen."

There were some chuckles, and Fairlight asked that Granny Spencer tell a story. With all eyes on the big boned woman, she began, filling her tale with a delightful mixture of mountain dialect and the Auld Scots she had learned from her ancestors in generations past. She had learned it as a child, and now passed it on to all those she considered her own children.

"Long ago, there was a young lass who went out to seek 'er fortune and ran smack! into a right fiercesome black bull. Turned out he was kinder than 'e looked, so they got to be friends. She wid climb on his back an' they traveled to many lands together.

"Wul one day, the bull said to the lass, 'You wait here. I've ginner go fight the devil, an' ye cin neither move hand not foot. If everything around ye turns blue, ye'll ken that I have defeated him. But, if everything turns red, ye'll ken the divil's won. So 'e wint off, an' the lass sat doon on a stoone, and then didn't move an inch.

"She heard roars and wailing, screaming and tearing from the next holler! And suddenly—ever'thang around her turned . . . _blue! _

But still she waited.

"Finally, from over a yonder knoll the bull came towards her, and the strangest thing happened. The black bull was turnin' into a man, big, braw, and bonnie. The poor lass was so scared she moved without knowin', an' ever'thang vanished. She was in darkness."

The twilight stole closer. No one noticed. They were so enraptured by the speaker, the inflections of her voice rising and falling, her timbre changing from warm to cold, ever giving emphasis to the strange way Granny Spencer used her words—differently—yet with a comforting sameness that excited the children.

Neil leaned forward breathlessly. Stories were a central part of every person there, and to become an artful story teller was high significance in the Cove. He longed to tell stories as Granny Spencer did.

She led them with the girl, through seven lonely years of searching for her friend, climbing glassy mountains, wandering through many lands . . . to the Sun in the East . . . the Moon in the West . . . the Wind in the North . . . the Sea in the South . . .

"They told her where 'er friend was and she went to his castle whaur ever'one was mournin' somethin' terrible like. Said their prince was sick, and he had ordered whoever could wring out his bloody shirt would be his wife. Waal, she wrang out that shirt till it was white as snow—and stayed right by 'im—he was awful sick. She would call to him and call to him . . . cryin' when he wouldn't wake."

Neil squirmed impatiently. This was the best part!

"One night, she sat by his bed, and over an' over she said,

'_Seven long years I searched for thee,_

_The glassy hills I clamb for thee,_

_The bluidy shirt I wrang for thee—_

_Wilt thou not wake and turn to me?' _"

There was pure magic in those words. The children's eyes sparkled in the firelight, crickets chirped, spring peepers sang, and the burning wood crackled. Granny Spencer paused a moment.

"What happened next, Granny?" prodded Fairlight, cheeks glowing.

"He didn't hear. Or at least, didn't wake up.

"The same thing happened over again. She sat beside 'im, she clutched his hand, and wept as she spoke to him, saying again,

'_Seven long years I searched for thee,_

_The glassy hills I clamb for thee,_

_The bluidy shirt I wrang for thee—_

_Wilt thou not wake and turn to me?'_

He heard and turned to her."

*************************************************************************************

Neil didn't know what to do. She needed to wake up! Listen—_you must wake up!_ Could she hear him? She was lying there so still.

He didn't know what it was—have the least idea what was filling him . . . this strange new emotion. It was like what he felt for his mother, only much greater. This made the love for his mother seem like a shadow, a wisp. This he felt so strongly in that living moment—it pulled so that it hurt and renewed him at the same time, allowing him to see that the woman—the girl lying there before him—was still needed here. _He_ needed her here.

She must not slip away . . . he had to do something! But what? He felt so hopeless. There was nothing to be done.

He knew in some way, however, that if she left him he would be alone. Utterly, helplessly, lovelessly alone.

Through the grey, shining mist that surrounded him he felt himself reaching for her. Why could he not see her face? Who _was_ she? And why did he feel this tremendously pure longing for her?

He must speak to her—keep her from leaving him. He found words pouring from his mouth and he was pleading with someone. Who?

Neil felt himself watching and living this tragedy at the same time. This girl lying here; he knew who she was—yet he did not. This Someone in the room—this Being; he knew who it was—yet he did not . . .

Still he spoke. With seemingly unrelated complexity, he was becoming someone else. Was the girl fading away? No! You must hang on! Please—_please_ don't leave me . . . _Long years have I searched for thee, wilt thou not wake and turn to me?_

She heard and turned to him.

*************************************************************************************

Darkness. Neil felt something wet on his face. What . . . ? The girl! He hadn't seen her face. Was it all a dream then? Did it . . . dreams were always said to have meaning. Why had he woken up before he saw her face? He knew that no matter what she looked like, she had the sweetest face in the world.

Rain was pattering staccato like drops on the roof, lulling, lulling . . . Neil settled under the warm covers. Normally he would have thought of how much he hated sleeping alone, in the dark, no one near him, and wished that his grandfather were there, but not now.

What a strange dream—and there had been tears on his face when he woke up.

Far away a low peal of thunder resonated. Pitter patter, pitter patter, splip, splip, the rain kept falling . . . The haze . . . grey white. That feeling that had completely filled him, and just as suddenly it was gone. Would it ever come back? He hoped so—it wasn't lonely.

The room seemed blacker than ever after a gleam of white light slashed through the window.

Searching, weeping . . . why? Could the dream have been so terribly important, he mused. A voice inside him seemed to whisper back, What if it's the most important thing there is?

He breathed deeply. Rain . . . rain, beautiful rain. He closed his eyes, rolled over, and sank into a deep sleep as a gentle whisper, sighing, escaped his lips;

"_She heard and . . ."_

*************************************************************************************

"Did ye sleep through the storm last night, Neil?" his mother asked the next morning.

"Near 'bout."

"He ain't skeered a-storms, are ye son?" His father ran his hand through Neil's thick curls. He seemed in an especially good mood today. Neil figured it was the working yesterday that made him so buoyant. It was a trait of the MacNeill men; they were happiest when they had something to do and seemed fulfilled by harsh demands.

"Well, jest remember, whatever ye dreamed last night be bound to come to pass."

Neil nodded absently, pondering. He had always heard that anything dreamed on a stormy night would come true.

*************************************************************************************

_The story told by Grandam Spencer in this installment is an adaption of "The Black Bull of Norroway", a Scottish folktale found in Andrew Lang's __The Blue Fairy Book__. A variation of this tale is found in the novel __Christy__ in chapter 38, as, in her typhus delirium, Fairlight is recalling the story as told by Granny Spencer. This tale is also mentioned in an essay on fairy stories by J. R. R. Tolkien, who calls it one of the grandest eucatastrophes in any literature. I found it very reminiscent of the end of the novel __Christy__. Do you see these "shadows of things to come"?_

_Please tell me what you think of this story even if you don't care for it. I'll take all the feedback I can get._

_Christy trivia question; Can any of you say what the last names of the little girls mentioned in this chapter are in the novel after they marry? (Fairlight, Opal, Lety, Elizabeth, Mary, and Rebecca.)_


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